


Everything is Lost

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were fourteen the first time you realized you had an angel on your shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything is Lost

**EVERYTHING IS LOST**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Castiel/Dean; Sam/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; spoilers up to season five

  
You were fourteen the first time you realized you had an angel on your shoulder.

It wasn’t anything, really, a turn and slip of your ankle on one of your father’s hunting trips, a fall bad enough you had to grit your teeth, had to shut your eyes tight, just so you wouldn’t make a sound. Your father had been there, but not close enough, and you had felt the sharp cold edge of something gripping your back and you thought that that might have been it, the thing your father was trying to stop, the thing your father was trying to save everyone from, and you thought maybe it had you now and that this was the last thing you’d feel, but instead of holding you to it, instead of pressing its claws against you, it tossed you aside.

And then your father was there with his warm, callused hands, his warm, callused hands pressing themselves against your neck, against your hair, his whiskey-gravel voice and his arms around you, and then you opened your eyes, and you saw something flashing white. It looked like a man, a man with his palm against the monster’s forehead, a man bathed in white light, but then he was gone.

When your father tells this story, he can’t explain the ending, can’t explain the death of a creature he never even touched, but he says he filled it full of rock salt anyway, says he took his knife to it the same way he took his knife to the shape shifter in Little Rock. He says he carved it up like a Thanksgiving turkey and he’ll smile and he’ll crane his neck back to take a swig from his flask and his eyes will be lit, and his face will be full and warm when he looks at you.

***

Your sophomore year of high school, you’re short and you still haven’t shed the baby fat and your father gives you glasses that you hide in your backpack as soon as he turns the car away from school. You haven’t grown into your wide shoulders and you haven’t yet learned how to be cool or suave or talk to girls like you see in the movies your father watches late at night after you’re supposed to have been asleep. You’re not smart enough or fast enough or strong enough, but no one ever teases you. No one ever makes fun.

At night, when you lie in bed, you think it might be because of the thing that’s been following you ever since you can remember, the thing that’s been watching your every move. At night, you think it might be because of the thing you’re afraid to name, the thing you’ve never really believed in, no matter how strong its always felt to you. That, maybe, he’s protecting you from what’s supposed to happen, what hurts, what’s normal.

And high school, unlike everything else, is relatively uneventful.

***

On your twentieth birthday, your father gets drunk and starts a fight with Sam. It’s the same fight they’ve been having since Sam turned fifteen, since Sam started thinking less about his family and more about the future, since you started saving up poker money in a jelly jar for the college tuition your father will never pay. It escalates to slurred words and hasty, door-slamming promises, to your father and the shatter of an empty bottle against the wall, and then you just can’t take it anymore, just can’t listen to it anymore, so you slide the Impala’s keys off the kitchen table and take her for a spin.

You’re doing eighty down winding back roads with a fifth of Jack in your lap and it might not be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, but it’s pretty close. The windows are down and there’s wind whipping through the car with enough force that it whistles and your hands aren’t tight enough on the steering wheel and your foot isn’t fast enough on the brake, so when you see something dash across the road and you swerve, you end up smashing headfirst into the trunk of an old oak tree.

When you wake up, you’re spitting blood and you feel like something in your chest has collapsed and you can’t feel your legs and the car is steaming and creaking like it’s angry, like it‘s disappointed. There’s glass everywhere and you lift your hands to unbuckle your seatbelt, but something in you is screaming in pain and your vision is swimming in front of you and you have to close your eyes against the swell of nausea in your throat.

And then someone says, “You are going to be alright, Dean.”

When you see him, he’s a lot taller than you imagined he’d be. Someone you could never explain, someone you’ve only ever seen in your peripheral vision, someone you’ve never met. He’s your age, maybe, maybe a little older, and he has scars like old, fading track marks on his arms and he has hazel eyes and dirty blonde hair and when he smiles, it’s crooked. You know this isn’t the real him, but it’s good enough.

“Who are you?” You croak. And then there’s more blood in your mouth and you have to cough until you can breathe again.

“You know.” And when he looks at you, you do. His tired eyes and the way his hair curls just at the nape of his neck, the way he holds himself perfectly still, the way his skin looks like it might be glowing.

“An angel,” you say, and breathing feels like you’re on fire now. Breathing feels like you’re swallowing broken glass.

He nods. His hands are hovering over your chest and you can see the useless veins underneath his skin, can see the tiny freckles.

“Why are you helping me?” With every word, every breath, you can feel the pain exploding inside you.

And here he looks right at you, his face young and full. “I have plans for you, Dean Winchester.” And here he places his hands on your chest, places them directly over your broken ribs, over the roaring blood inside of you, pressing every so softly, and you scream until you can’t feel anything anymore.

And when you wake up again, he’s gone.

***

You’re the only one who can see him. You’re the only one who can feel him or talk to him or miss him when he’s supposed to be there. When something big happens, something huge happens, and he’s supposed to be there to save you from yourself. When he’s supposed to kill the thing that’s hurting you or your father or Sam. You’ve tried leaving him messages like the ones you left on your father’s cell phone, shouting into the sky about injustices, about how he’s supposed to be here, now, at the times you need him the most.

Sam believes in angels, your mom believed in angels, but you always knew the truth. They don’t need humans as much as humans need them.

***

Your second car accident, you wake up in the hospital with your father’s last words still ringing in your ears.

And your angel never shows up.

***

The next time you see him, it’s in Mississippi. He’s in a different body, and you’re only a little bit drunk, watching Sam sleeping the next bed over in a motel room that has the stale taste of blood in the air, running your fingers over and over the stitches just above your heart, and he’s thicker now, more muscled, and you can’t help it if maybe you feel a little pull in your groin.

“Little late this time, aren’t you?” You say, and lift the bottle to your mouth.

Your angel tilts his head like he doesn’t understand, and you let out a long exhale through your nose. “Late?” He asks, and his voice is honey sweet and you laugh.

“You’re lucky you’re hot, because you’re not that great at your job, pal.”

Your angel looks down like he might be ashamed, but even you know that’s a feeling he could never have. “I came here as soon as I could, Dean Winchester.”

You roll your eyes. This isn’t the first time a ghost has gotten the best of you, gotten you almost killed, and, guardian angel or not, it sure won’t be the goddamn last. “Yeah, whatever. You want a drink?” You offer up an untouched bottle, lukewarm but still good.

He tilts his head again and you say, “You know. Beer?”

He furrows his brow, and Jesus but if he keeps that stupid look on his face any longer you’re gonna end up pushing him down on your bed and taking him right there.

“Here,” you say, and stand up, placing your hands on his shoulders and leading him to the table. His plaid shirt is soft underneath your fingertips, his blue jeans are worn and dirty. The body he’s in is maybe Sammy’s age, maybe younger, excitingly youthful beneath you, and you sit back in your chair and slide the bottle over to him.

“Like this,” you say, lifting the bottle to your lips, swallowing the liquid inside. You watch as he imitates you, the sweet, thick hollow of his neck craning to show off the bob of his Adam’s apple. He doesn’t choke at the taste, but you’re not really sure if he notices it, anyway.

“It’s,” he pauses, maybe searching for the right words. “It’s bitter.”

“You’ll get used to it,” you say, and smile.

***

The next time, he shows up in the body of a little girl.

You won’t look at him, but you hear his breathing, soft, somewhere near your shoulder. “Is it just me?” you ask, and there’s something caught in your throat, something you can’t get rid of. “Is it just me you need to save?”

Your angel places a tiny hand on the back of your neck, and you can see the outline of his dress, of the little girl’s dress, in the corner of your eye. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is high-pitched.

Sam’s body is on the floor in front of you, his hand laying by your feet, and your eyes are tired from crying and your throat is ragged and worn and you will give anything to have him up again, to have him alive. And your angel knows this.

“You won’t help him at all?”

Your angel walks around your chair, walks between you and Sam, his little girl hair curled into golden strands, his little girl face rosy red, and he places a little girl hand on your cheek, soft and warm. “No,” he says, and his voice is not his own, and it hurts so much more.

“Then I’ll make a deal,” you say, your hands curling into fists.

And when you blink, your angel is gone.

***

He’s not there when you open the Gate to Hell and he’s not there when you learn about Lilith and the people she’s killed on her way to you and Sam and he’s not there when you die a thousand times in Broward County. He’s not there through the demons or witches or monsters or ghosts and he’s not there through the magic and he’s not there through the death.

You and Sam are playing this game with missing pieces and half-cocked insight and you scream a hundred times into the sky for his advice, but he’s not there, he might never have been there, and you don’t know if he was just some desperate last-ditch effort to hold onto some kind of ground, to hold on to some kind of control. You don’t know if he was some kind of hallucination or what, but to you he was there and he was real and you need him now more than ever.

And when your year is up, he’s not the last thing you see.

***

After you claw yourself through the ground, you finally learn his name.

In a field of dying trees and soft, finger-raked soil, he speaks to you and your ears bleed, but it’s only until you see him in an abandoned farmhouse with wood-scarred magic in a body you’ve never met that he makes sense. He has dark hair and beautifully blue eyes and he presses two fingers to Bobby’s forehead and then you’re alone.

“Who are you?” you say.

And he looks up at you with the same blank expression as all the other bodies he’s stolen. “Castiel,” he says, and you breathe in at his name. It’s strange to finally know it after all these years, after all the times you’ve screamed yourself hoarse.

“An angel of the Lord,” he says. And he’s coming closer to you, his bullet-riddled suit and tie and the dirty beige trench coat.

“The one who gripped you tight,” he says, and he’s not far from you now, not far enough. “And raised you from Perdition.”

And you laugh, because you’ve always known that God has a fucked up sense of humor.

***

“Why all the different bodies?” You ask later, after Bobby and Sam have gone to sleep and your angel has come to you and only you, like usual, like normal.

“This one wasn’t ready yet,” he says, sitting beside you against Bobby’s kitchen cabinets, imitating your knees drawn up to your chest. “He wasn’t willing yet.”

“Willing?” You say and then wave your hand at his almost-response. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know.”

“I never force my vessels, Dean Winchester,” he says. His voice is low, but you doubt Bobby or Sam could hear him anyway. You doubt anyone but you could see him.

“Because you care so much for human life, right?” You scoff. His shoulder is touching yours, but you’re not looking at him, you’re not seeing him, your body rigid against his.

“Because those are the rules.”

You want to ask about everyone he’s watched die, everyone you’ve watched die with the knowledge that you have a guardian angel up your sleeve, that, if he wanted to, he could have saved every fucking person on the planet, could have saved your father or Sam or even you, but nothing is making it past your lips now, nothing is slipping past your tongue. You want to ask if there are rules in Heaven about letting your family delve deeper into this clusterfuck that might end with the Apocalypse, but you can’t even taste the words in your mouth.

There is Sam’s belief in God and angels and the bright white light of Heaven and then there’s yours, and you might have first-hand knowledge of what all this means, of what all this comes down to, but you’ll take Sam’s delusions any day.

“Why me?” You ask, instead. Again.

“Because you’re mine, Dean Winchester.”

You look up at him, sharp, and he gives you a brief, tight smile. And then he’s gone.

***

You dream of fire and ash and blood like copper in your mouth. You dream of death and warm, calloused hands and your father’s whiskey-gruff voice and Sam’s soft kisses on the corner of your mouth. You dream of Castiel and his blue-eyed gaze, the flickering shadow of his wings, the lightest touch of his lips to yours, and when you wake up, you know he hasn’t been there, and that’s what hurts the most.

***

When Sam asks, you tell him that you met Castiel with Bobby, that you’ve never known about him before, that he says he has plans for you but you’re not exactly sure what they are, and Sam believes you because he always wants to believe you, because he’s hiding his own secrets and he’s too busy to figure out yours. Sam believes you because it’s easier when he does, because the whole demon blood thing is a red flag you’re both ignoring, and because this pain between you has been a long time coming and neither of you are ready for it.

Sam with his mouth on your neck and his palm on your belly, Sam believes you because he loves you and because that’s just who he is.

***

Castiel tells you to stop Sam, to kill Sam, and you want to say, “Didn’t you let that happen already?” But he’s saying these things in between catching your mouth with his teeth and you’re not exactly sure when your guardian angel became something more, but it might have to do with God and his big plans for you, and it might have to do with the fact that you’ve never been able to say no.

Castiel slides his hand down your chest and tells you that Sam will kill everything you love, that Sam will be the end to this whole thing, and you want to say, “Sam’s the only thing I do love,” but that might not be true anymore, it might not be the whole truth, because there’s this thing with Sam and then there’s this thing with Castiel and you’re not sure which one is better, which one is the best. There’s this thing with Castiel that’s been going on since you were fourteen and you’re not sure when he stopped being something untouchable to something entirely tangible underneath your fingertips, and you’re not sure when Sam stopped being your brother and started being so much more.

Castiel tilts your chin back with the palm of his hand and whispers sweet into the hollow of your neck that Sam’s already gone too far, that Sam is way beyond salvation, and you want to say, “So am I,” but Castiel’s already bitten your tongue bloody. The Winchester boys are nothing if not fucked up and Castiel, of all people, should know this.

Castiel says, “Sam won’t survive this war.”

And you laugh, the taste of blood like pennies in your mouth. “And you think I will?”

***

And it’s not funny, but the day the war ends, you and Sam and your broken bodies, your last breaths and the smell of smoke in the air, your angel is nowhere to be found.


End file.
